


The Razor's Edge

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Shaving, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Seine AU: Valjean shaves Javert with a straight-razor because he doesn't trust him; Javert lets him because he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Razor's Edge

It is the seventh time, and Javert thinks: There is power in that number; there is meaning in that number; this time, he will find meaning in the curve of Valjean’s fingers at his jaw, in the steadfast sweep of the blade. 

He is well enough to walk the length of the room. He could do this himself. Valjean does not allow it, and instead brings the shaving tackle with him like a totem, and readies the razor. It is done without fanfare—he does not ask anything of Javert but that he stay still.

They do not speak. Javert does not know if it would be tolerable if they did.

Valjean holds back Javert’s hair as he bends over the bowl of warm water and wets his face—he is not allowed a ribbon, anymore, and has learned not to ask to be shorn instead—and then brushes his hair back one-handed and studies him. Once he has determined whatever he must, he lathers the soap, which is finer than anything Javert has ever bought himself, and brushes it across his face in gentle circles.

Everything is gentle, with him. Even his anger is gentle, when Javert provokes it, and it is more horrible for it. He would be gentle with—anything.

And on the seventh time, he does not break his long record. He leans into Javert. His focus is hot within Javert, like shame without its pain. The razor is more weapon than tool, but Valjean wields it without drawing blood, though Javert should welcome such a thing and the fault it would imply. Valjean is never at fault. He makes Javert wonder if he is dreaming, an extended reprieve before his true descent to Hell.

Javert can hardly feel the kiss of the blade as it slides across his cheek. He is obedient to Valjean’s touch, turning his head this way and that. The lather is cool, but the blade expunges that coolness from him. It is quick. The strokes are sure. His face is slightly sticky and very clean when the razor is finished with him—when Valjean is finished with him—and it is unbearable while Valjean is working because the residual burn in contrast to the cold foam only makes it more clear to Javert what is happening to him, under the skin, where even Valjean’s keen gaze cannot find the truth of him.

Javert takes care to breathe evenly, and counts each one in and out, until Valjean’s hand cups him the wrong way, until his calloused fingers—worker’s fingers, prisoner’s fingers—scrape at a shaved expanse of skin and remind him of where he is, and who he is with, and what hands he trusts with a blade so sharp, so close. Not three months ago those same hands could have bled him out, and did not.

As Valjean works, he keeps his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and dabs away lather against his scarred wrists. Intermittently, he dips his wrist into the cold water, cleansing it—and when he returns his hands to Javert’s face, the water sluices down his arm and makes his sleeve stick wetly to him.

These are the kinds of things Javert notices. He is not brave enough to look into Valjean’s face, and so does not know how he watches Javert—only that he does. His cowardice does not preclude him from feeling each of Valjean’s breaths in the pit of his stomach, nor from sipping each of his own breaths through his nose so that the rich scent of Valjean’s body can linger in his throat.

It is over in a few minutes. Valjean is careful, but he is also skilled, in the casual way decades of practice can give a man. He holds Javert’s hair as he bends over the bowl and rinses away the last traces of lather. That should be all—but when Javert straightens up, Valjean is lathering the soap once more, then spreading it on skin that is not blunted by stubble. Javert’s eyes flutter shut. His throat works with a swallow.

“It does not have to be that close a shave, Valjean,” he says, measured.

But the blade is on him again, with its brief strokes, as rhythmic as—

Javert swallows. When Valjean tips his head back to shave down his throat, he is hard-pressed to keep from swallowing again; spit collects in his mouth. There is the clean smell of the foam, and then the clean smell of Valjean’s soap, and something sharp that is sweat, which Javert prays is not his. The blade works down his neck, and then up the other side. It would be so easy for the sharp razor to slice that sensitive skin. It does not. Valjean does not. He works back up his neck, and strokes along his jaw, his chin, his cheek, under his nose.

Then it is done. Javert still has not swallowed. He is afraid to, suddenly, as if the act of swallowing will tell Valjean everything his flushed face has not, as if the sharp tang of sweat in the air is elusive, as if his tension does not make his thoughts evident. He looks, finally, into Valjean’s face. But now Valjean is not looking at him as he cleans the blade, as he cleans his hands, as he dries them, finger by finger. He does not dry the water that has dripped down his arm, and Javert follows the wet line of it with his eyes, up to the crook of his elbow, where the skin is sensitive, where Valjean would startle if he were touched. Perhaps.

He swallows. Let the act tell Valjean his secrets. “Thank you,” he says.

Valjean will still not look at him. “It is nothing.”

He dries the razor and snaps it shut.


End file.
